Their First Time
The Dance of Young Love
It was a most fateful of nights.
**
How did they find each other initially? Perhaps it was in English class, youth orchestra, or in the evening Bible study group. No matter. Their church-affiliated school system, in their mid-sized Midwestern town, required every student complete a year-long apprenticeship as a missionary before their 3rd year in high school, so when they got together as juniors they both had seen their 18th birthdays.
They were shy as forest fawns, but, finding they shared interests and activities, they gravitated to one another. It certainly wasn't love at first sight, but there was attraction... He eventually asked her to a movie. She accepted. During the movie he screwed up his courage and held her hand. She held his back and they were a couple.
They began the dance, the dance of discovery that all young couples do. He led. Often she'd follow. After he'd held her hand once, it became the norm. They tacitly accepted that holding hands was good. A given.
Once he'd kissed her good night -- first just a peck -- when she pecked back, that became the norm. Soon, after each Friday night movie, he'd drive to the back of their church. It was dark, private. Safe. Once parked she slid across the seat next to him. They kissed. A new norm.
But what of his hands? At first he confined them to her head, cheeks, neck, and shoulders. She kept kissing him, signaling that it was okay, so the dance continued. A roaming hand landed on her breast. She let it stay. He caressed it. Then the other one. A new norm.
The first time he attempted to undo her top button she stopped him. But he tried again and on the second, or maybe the third attempt she allowed it. After a few more dates, all her buttons were undone.
He explored inside her blouse, stroking velvety skin. All over. His fingers kneaded her lovely, small soft breasts through their flimsy, unnecessary support, then inexorably worked their way to her back. At some point she leaned forward, helping. So he could unhook her bra.
Though unspoken, they understood what that meant. She wanted his hands, his fingers, then his lips, tongue and mouth, on her bare breasts. On her nipples. She got them. Her pink, pert buds hardened smartly to his touches, his kisses. His sucking. She instinctively arched her back, pushed her breasts to him and pulled his head to her, making it easier. They both loved him nursing on her.
He improvised a new step in their dance. As he was sucking a tit, his hands, which always kept roaming, focused on her inner thighs. When, at his gentle prodding, she obligingly parted them, they knew the import. She granted him better access to her privates. After she first let him rub the seam where her pants legs joined, it was a given. He could pet her pussy during each session.
The temperature was rising. As his caresses were making her kitty purr, his hand inevitably moved to her belt and began to undo it. That first time she started, shaken out of her erotic stupor. She stopped him -- this was a serious new initiative -- and he went back to just kissing and stroking her.
But his role was to lead. He persisted and, eventually, when she, too, tired of the sameness that mired them in stasis, she let him. When her jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped that first time he just reached in and stroked her smooth, white, silky panties, feeling her bush beneath.
When that norm was well established, he tried to pull her jeans down. She resisted. It was too much, too soon. Of course, after many attempts over several dates, she allowed it, and raised her hips, making it easier.
The first time he worked her pants down he left her panties. This was a slow, ritualized dance they were learning and the choreography dictated just one new step at a time. He contented himself with feeling all around her panties, enjoying the silkiness. How they were damp between her tight-clamped thighs.
Then he finally dared to slip a finger inside the waist. Of course, she quickly pulled his hand away. But when he went back, for maybe for the third, perhaps the fourth time, she let him. Soon his whole hand was inside her panties, combing her bush, kneading her mons, sliding a finger up and down her slit, eventually boldly pushing into her pussy. Only just inside, though, and instantly retreating to preclude her stopping him. Making as if it had been accidental. Of course, that pesky finger went back, sank in deeper, and stayed longer.
He next tried to pull her panties down to join her jeans. That first time she said no and stopped him cold. But he was onto her pattern now and persisted, and either later in that session, or on the next date, she let it happen. She let him have what he so obviously wanted. When she raised her hips as he slid her panties down, was she just acceding to his wishes, or did she want it, too?
Regardless, his access was considerably improved and he learned much about the intricacies of a vulva. On later dates, when it was time for him to pull her jeans down, he'd save time and just take her panties with them as she raised herself.
But how far down did those pants and panties go? At first, being ever cautious, he'd leave them just below her ass, and his penis would throb as he feasted his eyes on her secret place. But her thighs were still constricted, constrained tightly in place. So the next time he pulled them lower, stopping just above her knees. However, that still bound her legs together. For him to really have the access he wanted, maybe they both wanted, he had to get them lower still, to her ankles, so he could push her knees apart. Open her up.
As with every other new step, there was initial resistance, but because she also found it exciting, secretly wanted it, and he carefully planned each foray to be just incrementally beyond what she'd allowed previously, sliding her jeans and panties down to her ankles became the norm.
Somewhat earlier in their waltz of sexual discovery, while they were making out he'd put her hand on his penis. She didn't pull it away even the very first time, but didn't move it. Until encouraged. Soon it was their norm that, as his hands began to roam on her, she would start stroking his cock.
On a later date, at his urging she undid his belt, unzipped his pants, and then pulled them and his briefs out away from his body. And down. His erect cock sprang free, and a new world opened up. She could stroke his bare penis as he caressed her exposed vulva.
By the time they were seniors, they had a new, very exciting norm: he'd get her pants and panties down to her ankles and feel her all over. She'd get his jeans open and down to his knees, then caress his hard, dripping, eager cock.
Of course, because he was young and so horny, without either of them intending it the first time, she jacked him off. Her usual stroking just pulled the cum right out of him. They both watched, fascinated as the semen spewed forth. Over and over.
Though she said nothing, he could tell she liked it. Liked being able to make him twitch and moan, liked seeing his cum shoot out. Liked the feel of it on her hand. Liked the power. How it now seemed he'd do anything she asked just so she'd do it again.
Their norm became pleasuring each other after their long kissing and undressing routine. Because of the chemicals that altered his brain after ejaculation, he'd do her first, using his finger. Sometimes two. She'd use her hand on him, adding Kleenex at the crucial moment. They learned to take time, to delay their release, to savor the build-up. It was nice, so much better than just making out had been. Much more satisfying.
But not ultimately. Their dance was not over. They had one more step to learn.
That fateful night they'd completed their ritual dos-à -dos and were ready. His cock was out, stiff and dripping. Throbbing to her caresses. Her pants were way down, her knees wide apart, his fingers playing inside her wet, lubricious vulva. They were building toward their mutual orgasms.
But -- Did he plan this? Did she? -- as he was kissing her, feeling her, he leaned on her and she slid down on her back on the seat of the car. As he'd spread her knees wide beforehand, he ended up between her legs. Their parts were bared and they both held their breath, knowing they were in position. Fucking position. He began to ease forward, and they both gasped when his penis prodded her pussy. He rotated his hips and...
Suddenly the inside of the car was ablaze with bright light. The cops had stealthily coasted up beside them and shone a spotlight into the car. Bummer. Fortunately, he still had his shirt on, looked respectable when he sat up, and was a white guy, so they just told them to move along.
It totally killed the mood, though. For a long time. Their "safe" place was no longer safe and they were always wary. Intimidated. Hesitant to do too much. To get too exposed.
They didn't fuck that night, or for the rest of their high school careers. It didn't happen until over a year later, in the summer when they reconnected after going off to different colleges. After they'd both lost their virginity with someone else.
Oh well.
Fate? Perhaps.
But what if the police hadn't come?
